


Waiting

by Thyme_Basalt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, Does this count Roadhog/Reader if the reader is technically Junkrat?, Fear of Abandonment, Fluff, I have no idea, Junkrat POV, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Content, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 15:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10722534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyme_Basalt/pseuds/Thyme_Basalt
Summary: How many times has he left you? Countless times. How many times has he come back? Every goddamn time. So what the hell are you so worried about?





	Waiting

You know he said he’d be gone for two hours and it’s only been about forty-five minutes. But still you can’t shake that nagging feeling. Something has gone wrong. How couldn’t it? It’s going to go wrong eventually, why wouldn’t it go wrong now? You’re wanted men, two of the most wanted men on the planet. You saw the $25,000,000 reward on TV just last night. That’s a fucking lot of money. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t considered turning yourself in for it. Maybe put it in a retirement fund for Roadie. He deserves it more than you. But what the hell made you both think one of the world’s most wanted men could just waltz into a grocery store?

That must be what’s happened. Roadie’s been arrested, picked up on the way to the store. They’re probably torturing him right now in the police station, maybe with electric shocks wired to his nipples, grilling him for your location. “Tell us where your Rat is!” They are screaming, frothing, cranking up the voltage through his body. He stays strong, he’s got a lot of fat on him and it helps. He doesn’t tell them but his mind is screaming out “Run, Rat, run!” if only you could hear it. But you can’t, you’re stuck in this fucking hotel like a trapped rat. That’s all you are, all you’ve ever been. A rat waiting to be trapped.

Your metal hand smacks your forehead in frustration. Now you’re losing your mind. Police don’t electrocute people’s nipples. Roadie hasn’t been captured. How many times has he left you? Countless times. How many times has he come back? Every goddamn time. So what the hell are you so worried about? You’re always anxious when he’s gone, you remind yourself. It’s just a little worse this time, but you can manage it. It’s because you got a bit less sleep last night than you normally do, didn’t get your full four hours. But you’re not tired now, you’re strung too tightly, about to snap from these intrusive thoughts that won’t let you rest.

You hop up from your seat on the floor and grab one of the desks, pushing it up against its partner. A nice long surface for you to work, a needed distraction. You upend a duffel bag, dozens of grenade casings spilling out, some clattering to the floor. They aren’t painted. That certainly needs to change. You shake up the bright yellow spray can and cover their surfaces in that obnoxious color. You spray the first bunch, then line up a new row and cover them. It leaves a nice yellow stripe on the desks with little circles where the grenades blocked the paint. A solid improvement, you’d say. Ah shit, you’re starting to get dizzy. Not supposed to do this inside. You know that, don’t need a dumb Hog to remind you every time you start shaking up the can. He always does. It’s his fault you’re getting high on fumes because you’ve come to rely on his reminders. He babies you sometimes and it bothers you. You survived how long without him? Fifteen years? No, that’s not right, you aren’t a teenager anymore. A long fucking time, that’s how long. You’re scrappy, resourceful, tough as any Junker who managed not to have his head blown off by young adulthood. You don’t need someone to hold your hand. No one’s ever held your hand. Not before him.

Roadie's hands. Who even has hands that big? How is it even possible? Calloused, firm, they can be both rough and soft at the same time. Inflict pain and pleasure. You love when they push you down by your chest, the way they lovingly stroke you, hold your legs apart. They always know when you’ve had almost too much and they make you dance on that line for longer than you ever would on your own volition. They make you come, they clean you up, they tuck you in, they hold you against his warmth. You miss them and it hasn’t been that long. Fifty-five minutes ago, they scratched gently at your scalp, tried to smooth down your unwieldy hair before he left you.

You pound on the desk in frustration, sending the alarm clock crashing to the floor (you’ll forget it’s there, it will go off at 4:30am and you’ll be annoyed at your past self for not picking it up). You don’t normally think about him constantly like this, do you? This is fucked up. Anyone in your brain right now would think you’re 50 screws short of a battle mech. It’s just because he’s gone that you’re getting like this. That and the fumes. You should probably open up the window before he comes home to a dead rat. If he comes home.

You stomp over to the window, almost rolling your only ankle on one of the grenades you left on the floor. You’ve got one ankle left, Rat! Don’t ruin that one! You throw open the window and shit- you forgot you were so high up. Fifteenth floor of your hotel. It will always be weird to you to be up this high. Buildings in Junkertown didn’t get this tall. Buildings this tall go down real easy. Don’t think about that. This building isn’t going down, at least not while you’re still in it. The sounds outside aren’t familiar but they are comforting, the beeps and rumbles of cars and trucks moving about the lights and the shadows of the city. The fresh air is wonderful, exactly what you need. You fold your arms on the sill and rest your head on them, the cold of your metal arm pressed against your cheek. It leaves lines and bumps on your face when you rest it on your arm for too long. Roadie usually chuckles and runs his finger down the long grooves on your face when it does. For some reason that always amuses him when you wake up with that imprint on your face. Sometimes you fall asleep on it on purpose just to see his smile and have him rub your cheek first thing in the morning.

Things like that make you think he loves you, but he isn’t always jolly, good time Hog. A lot of the time he isn’t. He wears a mask, of course he’s going to have a hard time showing his emotions. He comes off gruff, snaps at you, can have little patience for your bullshit and boy does he have to put up with a lot of it. He can get rough with you, especially when you’re at your peak annoyance. You’ve perfected it to a beautiful science of button-pushing and darting out of his reach. But sometimes he does catch you and for just a moment you are terrified of him, terrified you pushed him too far this time. If you’ve really pissed him off, you can see that flash in his eyes behind his mask, not _quite_ like the flash he gets before a kill, but it’s close and that’s what makes your heart stop and your gut burn. Sometimes you can see the restraint in his masked face, you can see him make the choice not to hurt you. But you don’t always get off easily, which is exactly what you want. Sometimes he fucks you blind, and you’re goading him on, howling and squealing and you feel like his cock is trying to drive itself to the earth’s core via your asshole. You can’t explain it- sometimes you would just rather fuck rough Hog than soft Hog. You don’t know how to ask for it and this seems the best way.

Did you jab your stupid metal fingers on those metaphorical buttons one too many times? Could he have left you? What was the last thing you said to him before he left? You argued about something earlier today, it was something petty, like the name of the innkeeper back in Junkertown who helped you two back on your feet. That had been a relatively mild argument, all things considered. He wouldn’t have left you over that. Of course not just that, but maybe a culmination of everything over the years- your voice, your laughter, your unpredictability, your penchant for putting yourself in life-threatening situations. Trying to deal with you on a daily basis is enough to drive a saint to shoot up a school. You have enough self-awareness to know that. Today might have been the day when he decided he had enough. Told you to stay put and left you forever. He knew you would stay put like an obedient puppy for a couple hours at least while he got his head start.

You walk back over to the bed, kicking the grenades out of the way with your boot this time. Fool me once… ah, fuck you can’t remember the rest of the saying. You throw yourself down on the bed with a loud sigh, one you would normally use (most the time unsuccessfully) to get his attention. Your flesh hand travels up to pick at a bite mark Hog left on your stomach a few days ago. How he managed to find enough belly meat on you for his teeth to gain purchase is a mystery to you. You scratch at it, picking away the bits of scab. “It’ll leave a scar if you keep doing that,” you remember Hog warning you. You don’t care. You like the way it looks like one of your traps closed on your belly. Okay, maybe it’s not that big but you giggle to yourself thinking about Hog having your trap for a mouth. You trace your finger around it in lazy circles, thinking about how your life will be different now without him. What do people even do first thing in the morning if they don't have a massive Hog belly to roll onto? Who do they read the weather for the week to? Who reminds them to put on underwear and brush their teeth?

You sit up after a couple minutes, remembering the perfect thing, something you’ve been saving for an occasion just like this, when Roadhog is gone, no longer here to tell you what you can and can’t do. You have a bit of an experimental bomb. You don’t have a great name for it now, but you’ve been calling it the Junker’s Kiss and as stupid as that name is, you kinda like it. You call it that because it’s meant to be a light, controlled explosive, or as much so as either of those things are attainable. You attach the small box and its colorful wires to the wall across from your king-sized bed, duck behind the couch and press a button. It really is a small explosion, so much so that it might not have garnered any attention from the rest of the floor. It doesn’t quite give you that feeling of pleasure down in your gut like your more grandiose ones do, but you get immense satisfaction from the fact that it did the job you set out to do. Just another one of your many skill Roadie will miss out on.

A small portion of the wall crumbles away and now there’s a man-sized hole into the neighbor’s room. No one’s home at the moment, you see peeking your head in, but it looks like they left for some fancy shindig in a hurry, maybe a wedding, with garment bags, makeup, clothes strewn about. You imagine them coming home late at night to see a hole into a room with you curled up on the floor alone, body surrounding an enormous leather gas mask. Maybe they’ll come over and comfort you, offer you some wedding cake the bride insisted they take home with them. Or maybe they’ll just call the police. They’ll definitely call the police.

You scoop up that mask from where he left it on the side table. He hates to leave it, but being one of his defining features, he is smart to leave it behind when he has to go out. You put it over your own face and breath in. Fuck, that smell is strong, leathery, sweaty. You put the lenses over your eyes and you look at yourself in the mirror. It looks weird and it feels wrong. Almost as disturbing as if you pulled of his flesh face and wore it around. You lay back on the bed, holding the mask up over your head, staring into its eyes before you pull it against your chest. The scent of it and maybe the fact that you just overstimulated yourself into exhaustion lets you drift into a light sleep.

You hear the dull thumping of boots, the rustle of shopping bags and the key going into the door. You’re on your feet in an instant, abandoning the mask on the bed, before you even register Roadhog standing in the doorway. At that moment, you don’t know if you’ve ever felt so happy/confused/angry in your life. Those emotions cycle through you in the span of a couple seconds and he must be able to see them plain on your face. You can see his eyes, they’re not obscured for once. They move from you to the hole in the wall to back you then over to the half-painted grenades and destroyed desks and then again to you. The standoff between you seems like it could go on for hours, then he softens, rolling his eyes, but you think you can see a smile behind his face mask. He shifts his bags into one hand and holds his empty arm out to you.

Happy- your brain stops on that one. Of course you’re happy to see him. He didn’t leave you, didn’t get captured, he came back like he always does. You fling your arms around his thick neck, peck kisses on his stubbly jaw, reach up and tousle through his silvery hair that he's wearing down. He wraps his big arm around your waist as you bury your face into his chest. It’s covered by a shirt, which you hate because you can’t get all in there to the hair and the sweat and the musk, but it’s good enough. Still smells like him.

“Sorry I took so long,” he says even though it’s only been an hour and and fifteen minutes and he told you he’d be gone for two. “This woman in line in front of me-” and suddenly he’s telling you the most fucking mundane story you have ever heard in your life. Roadhog, who can’t normally spare two extra words, is telling you about the woman who paid for her groceries in the smallest coin denominations possible, a kid who wouldn’t stop trying to put oranges in his cart and the elderly couple arguing about 1% versus 2% milk. The story is so dumb and so boring that your heart rate immediately decreases and you stop sticking to him like a freakishly gangly starfish. You’re rooting through the bags he’s holding, trying to see if he bought you anything special. He holds them hostage up over your head as he walks over to the kitchenette, still telling this story until you’re groaning for him to stop and show you what he bought for dinner. By the time he’s done with his blow-by-blow of the world’s dullest trip to the grocery, he’s got a pot on the stove boiling, you’re giggling and juggling tomatoes and you’ve forgotten what the hell you were so worried about in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve seen Borderline Personality Disorder referenced quite a bit to describe Junkrat’s behaviors and I feel like it really fits, so I’ve tried to do my very best to research and depict it as accurately as possible. In addition to that, because of his difficult past, I know Junkrat would have a litany of other mental issues stemming from growing up alone in a wasteland, radiation poisoning, memory loss etc., so some of his behaviors can be attributed to those as well. I really enjoyed writing this! Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
